vixo

I keep God in a small box not out of disrespect— but because light, when left alone, forgets how to stop. It is a sun, yes— but not the sky’s obedient one. This one presses against its edges, a quiet violence of fire, folded inward, anticipating. Sometimes I hear it breathe— a low solar hum, like heat thinking. I open it carefully, only when the world narrows to a throat tightening. Then it spills— not outward, but into me. My bones learn what's timeless. Fear softens, like wax that remembers The warmth of the flame I become maliable I never leave it open long. God is not meant to be continuous. I close the lid while the light is still speaking— while it still whispers "I know you're scared." And in the dark again, I carry the box like a second heart— small, contained, and impossibly burning. * The box is smaller than a glimpsing thought Yet still too large To bear its inner weight In the void of the box - - Suffocating Flame Starved of purpose and